He left in the spring. It took four months to move on — but only two to remember how to breathe normally. And because he left in the spring, I skipped the cleaning this year and hoarded for a while. Not my own things: I don’t own much and prefer to live in open spaces, spartanly. But I do tend to hold onto other people’s things; their words, mostly.

I’ve stored the sound of his voice on my answering machine, his worded messages and a shredded napkin with his absentminded scribbles.

The sound of his voice — was the first to go. I’ve done that before, so I knew better: Holding onto the voice belonged to the memory, and it could be the hardest to forget.

Harder than his touch. His touch belonged to the skin. About a million skin cells would go every day, and I hoped they would take the tactile memories of him — with them.

But the voice: The voice belonged to the brain. It was more than skin deep. It sunk in and echoed around for a bit:

“Remember me, me, me… me.”

So, I removed it, quickly, surgically, no matter how much I wanted to hoard it. That very week he announced his departure — the voice had to go.

And I remembered thinking:

“Where does everybody go — when they go?”

So many times, I’ve heard lovers speak of needing their freedom. Does freedom really need to be negotiated? And how does love impede it, anyway?

And then, they speak of “not being ready”, not being “in that place”. What place is that? I mean I understand structure in storytelling: I do it every day. I’m a fucking mythologist! But to mold one’s life to a coherent line-up of well-timed events — that seems ridiculous, and somehow offensive, to tell you the truth. To tell you my truth.

And in the mean time, the skin continued shedding layers. It wasn’t following any particular chronology. It wasn’t determined by storytelling, and its structure: chapters, afterwords, closures, etc. Every day, about a million skin cells would go, and I would hope they took the tactile memories of him — with them.

The written messages would go next. At first, I would sort through them, like quirkily shaped pieces of a puzzle. I’d spread them out on the floor of the joint, long overdue for its spring cleaning. I’d tack ‘em onto the empty wall. I swear to god, I knew there was a whole picture somewhere in there, even though I’ve never seen it (not even on the box cover). If only I could figure out the line-up, I thought, I could understand “that place”. You know: “That place”, to which they go — when they go.

So, I would shuffle the worded messages, measure their jagged edges against against each other. I mean, I understand structure in storytelling: I do it every day. I’m a fucking mythologist! But with these bits that I was hoarding — all over my joint — something still wasn’t making sense.

Viscerally! Viscerally, I knew that something wasn’t complete. Perhaps, the picture wasn’t even there and all I’d been twirling in my fingers were orphaned pieces of multiple puzzles, as if solving a silly prank by a bored rascal. Soon, it all began to seem ridiculous, and somehow offensive, to tell you the truth. To tell you my truth.

So, the words would go, mere weeks after he announced his departure.

And I remembered thinking:

“Is he going — to ‘that place’?”

And in the mean time, the skin continued shedding layers. A million skin cells would go, methodically taking the tactile memories of him — with them.

But what to do with the shredded napkin with his absentminded scribbles? Where to store the fortune from a cookie that spoke of love and ended one of our shared meals? The ticket stubs. The birthday cards. The tags from my suitcase with which I travelled to meet him in my two favorite cities.

They were the palpable proofs of our story. Of our unfinished puzzle. And I would hoard them for a while (at least a season past the spring, to be exact, never having done any spring cleaning). My hopes for his change of mind had long been deleted along the sound of his voice. After a while, I didn’t even want a reunion, let alone a return. As much I as I could accept, he had departed for “that place.” You know: “That place”, to which they go — when they go.

I don’t go to “that place”, because the places where I dwell, I’ve chosen quite carefully; and I don’t take them for granted. I want to travel, sure, often alone to my two favorite cities. But I don’t crave being anywhere else but here. And if I do — I just go. That’s — my fucking truth!

Neither do I reconstruct my life to fit a story. There is no need for that: I am a fucking mythologist, I study stories every day! Besides, to mold my life to a coherent line-up of well-timed events — that seems ridiculous, and somehow offensive. It robs a life of its magical unpredictability. So, instead of waiting to be “in that place” — waiting “to be ready” — I’ve always found myself up for it.

All of it:

Life, and the humanity that comes with it.

Love, and the humility that precedes.

Loss, and the utter humiliation that often follows.

But in the mean time, through all of it — life, love, loss — the skin continued shedding layers. A million skin cells would go, every day, methodically taking the tactile memories of him — with them.

Perhaps, I was hoarding the palpable proofs of our story to teach the new skin cells about what was being mourned. That way, when the old skin crawled, they wouldn’t be clueless.

Eventually though, the new cells — took over. One morning, I woke up to find them in a majority; and they no longer wanted to hear the old story. They wanted new ones: new loves, stories, puzzles. So, the palpable proofs had to go.

The old skin cells, shed all over this joint, were the last to clean up. They had long expired, taking the tactile memories of someone I was now willing to forget — with them.

She was beautiful as shit, and very well-endowed, in her humanity. But the one thing that had made me fall for the creature — head first against the tiled floor of an empty pool (SMACK!) — was her ability to always say what she meant and to say it with the precision of a sniper: (POW!)

There was a gap though — a space where she lingered while choosing her words carefully and squinting her dark African eyes at her speaking opponents. Half a generation older than me and so many exotic heritages apart, she had patience — in spades. So, while I would be stepping on toes of the speaker — some over-read academic whose fear of our female flesh would make him work overtime at spewing out big words with which he hoped to dominate and conquer — while I would be wedging in my objections and stuttering with my youthful wrath (and with having so much to prove!), my girl would just hold there. She would hold her fucking ground, my brothers and sisters — like Joan of Arc before her tribunal — and she wouldn’t fucking move!

It was so bloody impressive — it gave me a hard-on! It was like watching one of those big cats at their hunting game: You know better than to intrude, because you suddenly become aware that that cat’s evolution has not been contaminated by a century of junk food, bad decisions and hedonistic behaviors utilized to shut out its guilty conscience. The cat is on top of its game: It’s perfectly equipped — on point! — and it never has to work hard at proving jack shit. And you know, for certain, that when the time is right for that one outrageous pounce — meant to capture, never to just tease — the poor victim won’t have enough time to even utter a prayer.

Well, it was like that, with this girl. She would watch the poor sucker who overcompensated his boner with words, words, words — BULLSHIT! — and she would seem so chill. Her glorious brown body appeared perfectly relaxed. There was no verbal jab in the world that could make her shiver with wrath; no words capable of making her lose her composure; or even shift your weight. Okay, maybe — may-be! — occasionally she would raise one eyebrow; but even that was barely noticeable. You had to be in dire love with her to notice that change. Which I was. So — I did.

And when she would pounce — OH, LORD JESUS! — it was so much fun to watch! If the asexual academic had been presumptuous at all about his vocabulary and degrees, the moment my girl unleashed: She destroyed the fucker. Because you couldn’t tell by her youthful face, which she insisted on wearing without any make-up, but she’d had years of education and a lifetime of reading to back her up. She studied language for a living, working as an editor at every publishing house with its focus on radical writers: female and foreign and black! (FUCK!) And just for fun, on weekends, when others got busy shifting around their patio furniture for barbecues in Brooklyn — she wrote poetry.

Some shifted the mundane — she displaced the real.

And she would win. Always! Because she wasn’t too hung up on the meaning of words. Language, to her, was meant to be played with. Otherwise, it was all dead. So, true to that same feline fashion of hers, she played a gentle tug o’ war with concepts — tapping them, scratching the surface, or sinking her fangs into their gist — like a bored cat amusing itself with a caught prey before feasting on it.

Don’t get me wrong: She had her truths. Better than that: She WAS all truth! Love, dignity, sex and ethics — those were non-negotiable. Not a thing to play with! But words themselves — those little rodents and birds — were way too much fun to not fuck with.

Back then, I had once confused a man for the love of my life and I worked so hard on earning him. At first, I tried on my ultra-feminine version: All high heels, and eye-liner, and ruffled skirts that carefully ended at my knees. I thought:

“Maybe he would love me more that way! Maybe if I’d waxed, tamed my eyebrows, painted my nails in pretty pink; if I spoke with Americanized inflections and curtsied when he picked me up at Grand Central. MAYBE!”

But after a year of still not being enough — of all that uncertainty and self-doubt — I began forgetting that I always hated make-up, especially in pink; and that I treading daintily — just wasn’t my style. So, I gave myself a boy cut, loaded my closet with flats, white tank tops and tight jeans; and began taking the train into Manhattan thrice a week.

One day, my girl and I had stepped out onto Madison Ave, to do some hunting. It was one of those spring days that breathed down New Yorkers’ neck with warm air and smells of budding cherry trees — but the sun had yet to come out. We strutted southbound. My girl lead the way. Despite the promise of spring, she had zipped-up her hoody; and not tempted for a second to absorb the one New York season that reminds its natives as to why they choose to suffer there for the rest of the year, she hurriedly strutted to our decided destination.

A Nuevo-Rican had come from behind us at a pedestrian crossing and studied our asses, in creepy silence; and when he realized my girl was one hot number underneath that zipped-up hoody, he began to whine, nasally:

“Ooh, mami!”

“Fuck you!” my girl shot him down over her shoulder and stepped off the curb, long before the light had changed in our favor. POW!

Then:

“So, what was your definition of ‘forgiveness’?” Just like that, she was back to me. She was back — with me. MINE! I’d been out of breath for thirteen blocks by now: from trying to catch up to her, like that poor Nuevo-Rican doubling over behind us, at the street light. Not waiting for my answer, she resumed:

“Forgiveness — is like courage: It is only committed for your own sake.”

“Forgiveness is like courage,” I repeated in a half-whisper, as if asking for her hand in marriage.

“NO!” she threw over her shoulder again, like a fuck-you to those who were unable to catch up. “Forgiveness IS courage.”

And off she went: strutting, leaping, pouncing and leading the way, half a generation ahead of me and through strange, exotic histories in between; running every red light and giving me the most generous go-ahead of my life.